icarus

When I was younger you always told me not to fly too close to the sun.
I was enticed by defiance.
I wondered what my wings were for if not for flying.
So I began to fly, but never too high.
Fly over treetops, breaking branches.
Fly over lakes, watching ripples.
Fly into the clouds, indulging in the mist.
Too high didn’t seem possible.
My wings were invincible.

When I was younger you always told me not to swim too deep.
I was overwhelmed with curiosity.
I wondered what my fins were for if not for swimming.
So I swam, but never too deep.
Swam through the seaweed, endless.
Swam between schools of fish, scaly.
Swam above the coral, beautiful.
Too deep didn’t seem possible.
My fins did not want to be controlled.

I defied your warning.
I flew too high; I swam too deep.
However, I survived.

I flew higher than I ever had before.
I felt my body burning, dissolving.
I turned into a ball of fire, an enflamed meteor.
My body stayed lit for a while,
But it did not kill me.
My wings were charred, but I could still fly.

I swam deeper than I ever had before.
I felt my fins flying through water, gliding.
Then I felt pressure, my body becoming small, compacted.
I was suctioned to the ocean floor.
I could not breathe; I started to drown.

I was becoming weak, and the water was dark.
I saw a small light, reached out to grab it.
I felt something soft but rigid.
I held tight, I knew I was dying.
It was a whale that saved me,
A whale.
His firm fin guided me to life again.

I flew too high and swam too deep,
I had to, it was my calling.
I know now that if you truly did not want me to fly or swim,
That you would have cut my wings and fins,
But that was not your choice.
Maybe someday, I’ll cut my own wings and fins,
But for now, I will fly too high and swim too deep.